


Sing for Them

by missazrael



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M, Modern AU, Music, inspired by great art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-20 00:11:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1489531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missazrael/pseuds/missazrael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if you always sang love songs for the same person?  What if you'd only seen that person in your dreams?</p>
<p>What if you always felt like something in your life was missing?  What if you found yourself inexplicably attracted to someone you've never seen, after only hearing his voice?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sing for Them

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by an absolutely beautiful set of drawings by Mizy over on Tumblr. You can see them here: 
> 
> http://miyajimamizy.tumblr.com/post/75352471472/sing-for-them-college-reincarnation-au-where
> 
> They're wonderful, go look at them before or after you read!

It wasn’t a bad job, all things considered. The pay was all right, and the tips usually made up for what the actual wage didn’t cover. Marco had learned early on what standards people wanted to hear and filled the sniffer glass on his piano with one and five dollar bills, and which songs he could add flourishes to and which he couldn’t. After one week, he was sick to death of Frank Sinatra and that damn “Someone Like You” song, and he practically vibrated with excitement whenever someone asked for something different. The night a shy young woman asked for Rhapsody in Blue, he almost tipped her, just for having such good taste in music.

But really, he couldn’t complain. The job paid the bills, gave him time to go to school and work on his degree during the day, and he was doing what he loved, even if it wasn’t as entirely fulfilling as he’d hoped it would be.

The best part, though, happened at the very end of the shift. That’s when Marco liked the club the best, when most of the patrons had trailed home, drunk on wine and cheese and maybe, just maybe, his music. When it was just him and his piano on the stage, the rest of the club quiet, waitstaff shifting through the shadows and cleaning up, talking quietly to themselves. Then he could play what he wanted, play his own compositions, and no one cared.

Some of the songs came easy to him, lilting songs in minor keys, flowing out of his hands and his mind as easily as breathing, and they were always about the same person. 

_“What would I do without your smart mouth... drawing me in and then kicking me out...”_

~*~

The rent was cheap, at least. That’s about the best thing Jean could say for the place. It certainly wasn’t big, or well-insulated, or convenient to the subway. It didn’t have natural light, or a refrigerator made in this century, or a shower that didn’t spray brown water everywhere for the first few minutes after it was turned on. It did have a fire-escape, though, a rusty, battered one that creaked alarmingly whenever he climbed out on it. Sometimes, if there was a power outage somewhere in the neighborhood, he could even catch a glimpse of a star or two when he crept out there to have a cigarette.

He might even consider the fire-escape an unintended bonus, if it weren’t for that damn club on the ground floor. Fucking jazz, jesus christ, if there’s one thing he didn’t know how badly he hated until he moved into this apartment, it’s jazz. All horns and drums and yowling singers, who can listen to that shit? He can’t even turn up his own music to drown it out, or the old hag next door will start banging on the walls.

The weekends are the worst, that’s when the assholes with the horns show up, and Jean makes a point to try and stay out until the early hours of the morning, just so he doesn’t have to hear them. The weekdays, though... there’s a guy that plays on the weekdays, and he’s all right. He plays piano and sings, and even though Jean usually can’t understand the words, the melodies aren’t the worst thing in the world. Something that rocks would be better, obviously, but... yeah. The piano guy is okay.

~*~

_“You’re my end and my beginning... even when I lose I’m winning...”_

Marco knows who he’s singing about, even though he doesn’t. He’s dreamed about him for as long as he can remember, and he’s learned to not tell people that, that normal people don’t dream about the same person almost every night, for their entire lives. He’s talked to psychiatrists about it, and they always tell him the same thing: we don’t know. We don’t know why you dream about the same man, night in and night out, or why you feel like you know him, or why it bothers you so much that you’ve never met him in real life. Here, take an Ambien and call me if it happens again.

Eventually, he stopped talking about it.

But the songs are for him, for the nameless, faceless man in his dreams. He can see parts of him, sometimes... he would know his hands if he ever saw them, and the tawny, amber shade of his eyes, and the way quick, bitingly sardonic smiles flash across his mouth. He would know his taste, the way his lips felt against his, the texture of his hair under his fingers, the curve of his spine leading to his hips. But never his face. He never gets the whole picture, and he never gets his name. Only that they belong together in ways he can’t explain, and that he’s never met him before.

Over time, he’s learned to not search the faces in crowds, looking for him. He’s learned to not look at stranger’s hands, hoping to see them fold into nervous habits he’d recognize anywhere. He’s learned to keep quiet about it, and go on dates, and pretend to be normal. The man only exists in his head, and in his songs, and as long as he stays there, Marco has learned to be content.

~*~

He didn’t mean to learn the piano guy’s schedule. It just kind of happened. And he doesn’t go out there every night, or for a long time. It just so happens that Jean’s last cigarette of the day often lines up with the piano guy’s last few songs, all right? It’s a coincidence, nothing more, and it’s just a happy accident that by the time the last set rolls around, it’s gotten quiet in the neighborhood and he can hear his voice better.

Such a beautiful voice, rich and pure... as Jean watches the smoke from his cigarette swirl up into the sky, he imagines a face to go with that voice. Dark hair, dark eyes, beautiful, long-fingered hands and broad shoulders, freckles smattering across his cheeks and shoulders like constellations of stars. He’s not sure where the idea of freckles comes from, but it works, so he goes with it. It’s all just a bullshit exercise anyway; the piano guy is probably some four hundred pound blob with pudgy, damp hands and a bad haircut.

Jean will never admit that he sleeps better after hearing the piano guy’s last set, either, or that he’s learned the words to the last song he plays. It’s always the same song, and some trick of acoustics makes it float up to the fire-escape, and Jean thinks sometimes that it sounds like the piano guy is singing it just for him. And if his eyes ever burn and tear up when it ends, it’s because of the wind blowing smoke back in his face. That’s all.

~*~

_“And you give me all of you...”_

Marco closes his keyboard gently, running his hands over the varnished surface of the piano affectionately. There’s some light applause from the club, and then the lights dim and he slips off the stage. The staff pats him on the back and exchanges pleasantries, and he smiles and nods and takes the envelope with his money from the club owner. It’s hard, dealing with people after finishing a set; he always feels fragile after singing that song, like the barrier between himself and the dream world where he loves someone with beautiful hands, amber eyes, and a smart mouth is the thinnest.

He steps out through the backdoor of the club, into an alley festooned with rusty, dangerous looking fire-escapes, and leans against the building for a moment, gathering himself back into the real world. He catches a whiff of cigarette smoke, drifting from somewhere above him, and he looks up.

~*~

Jean hears the door close below him; he must have stayed out here longer than usual. His cigarette has burned down almost all the way to his fingers, and the tip of his nose and fingers have grown cold in the brisk autumn air. He was thinking about that song, that last song the piano guy sings, and chasing some memory that he can’t quite grasp. Some memory of dark hair and eyes, and a smile that’s only for him.

He glances down, and almost looks away before the man standing in the alley looks up, and their eyes meet, and Jean drops his cigarette as his heart starts trying to pound out of his chest.

_“Oh...”_


End file.
